Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
He sounds just like Dottie at the yarn shop.
The man with the Afro scoffs at his friend. “Just eat it, you old fool. Of course she’s trying to convince us,” he says, then takes a bite of the peach one, and his eyes pop. After he chews, he turns to me. “Do you deliver to the town square?”
I laugh. “Maybe I can. Except on Tuesdays. My oven takes that day off.”
“Perhaps we’ll put in a standing order. Name’s Jackson.”
“I’ll be on the lookout, Jackson.”
The nose-hair guy harrumphs, but then takes a bite of the raspberry Danish. He doesn’t say a word when he finishes chewing. The third man adjusts his San Francisco Cougars baseball cap, pours coffee into his own to-go cup, and drinks some. “Not bad,” he says, then gives me a once-over. “You’re the kid who ran over the mailbox, let the llamas run free, and then ran out of town, right?”
I wince as my past bites me again. But I own it. “Yes, that’s me.”
He nods. “Good on you for doing the hard thing. We’ll place an order for Wednesday morning. Not sure about Arnie,” he says, turning to the raspberry Danish guy, arching a brow in question.
“Fine,” Arnie grumbles.
“But this time I’ll pay,” the Cougars fan adds, then tells me his name’s Lorenzo.
I didn’t come here thinking I’d gain them as customers, but I’ll happily take it. I say goodbye, then head to Annabelle’s shop to grab some flowers for my next mission.
This is long overdue. It’s been weighing on me since I ran into Joni at the coffee shop when we first started working on the bakery. That encounter this morning with the chess guys only reinforced it. My palms feel clammy as I park my car, and grab a sampler box of brownies, cookies, and bars, along with a bouquet of orange marigolds, since I checked that Mrs. Henderson had that color and type of flower painted on her current mailbox, and open the car door.
I head up the cobblestoned path to her front porch. It’s one of those cutesy homes with ladybug pots for plants, and sunflower wind chimes. When I reach the porch and lift my hand to knock, I freeze, hand mid-air.
Who answers the door anymore? This is dumb. I hate the doorbell. I avoid it. Most people look in the security camera and hide out of sight till whoever knocked goes away.
But I have to do it anyway, rapping on the wooden door.
I’m greeted by a yap.
Then another one.
A few seconds later, two aggrieved black-and-tan Chiweenies pop up on the couch in the window and give me hell through the windowpane.
“Sorry, cuties. Just wondering if your mom is here,” I say to the pups.
Seconds later, the sound of boots squishing in the front lawn draws my attention. Then there’s a voice. “Quiet there, you little monsters,” a woman says.
But it’s said with affection.
She turns to me, tilting her head, forehead wrinkled, mouth unsure. She’s got a tall shovel in her hand, and she plants a booted foot on it. That shovel could bludgeon me. She’s giving badass grandma vibes. “What can I do for you?”
“I was…” I trot down the steps. “I’m Mabel. I ran over your mailbox ten years ago, and I never said I was sorry. I know my parents replaced it but I didn’t know what to say so I avoided it. And I just wanted to apologize in person.”
She chuckles warmly. “Oh honey, that was years ago. Water under the bridge. But what made you think of it now?”
That’s a reasonable question, and it has an easy answer. “I guess it just seemed overdue. And like something I could do.”
She nods thoughtfully. “I get that. It’s just a mailbox, but it takes character to face something that’s been nagging at you, even something small.”
My gaze drifts to the painted mailbox, and sure, it’s no big deal. But I want to be part of this town, baking for these people, asking for their support day in and day out. It seemed the least I could do.
My throat tightens, but I thrust the flowers I’ve been holding at her, along with the treats. “For you. Thank you.”
She takes both. “You didn’t have to. You could have just called, but I appreciate the flowers and treats very much.”
“Thank you. Also your dogs are adorable. I can bring them dog cookies if you’d like.”
“They’re fosters. Through Little Friends. They’re a bonded pair, so they’ll only be with me till they find a forever home.”
Well, isn’t this kismet. “You know, I have a friend who’s going to do that too. Foster.”
“You don’t say. I need a temp foster for them for a couple days next week,” she says, eyes twinkling. “And I bet they’d love dog cookies.”
“Sold.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m back at the bakery, setting up to open in an hour when I spot a familiar face at the door, waving to get my attention.